Everything I Do...I Do it for.....who???

Now I want to say something

Something that's been on my mind

It's really very simple

But the words aren't easy to find

Hey family. I've been gone but, hopefully, not forgotten. Getting some things together on the career front. Studying for my certification, lobbying for a promotion, yada, yada. Doesn't leave a lot of time for writing. Somehow, however, I found time to book a cruise for my birthday. That's right! I'm setting sail! Right after I test for my certification I should be back to writing, drinking and having an undignified celebration of my life thus far. Now, while trying to fit in prep appointments for my cruise something crossed my mind. Something that disturbed my spirit so much, I had to make time to share. Picture it...my neck-o-da-woods 2010. Legs spread, mouth open & poised to scream....rock with me for a few....

Didn't know that I can feel this way

I'm not a yes kinda woman

But I'd do anything you say

We don't have to scream & shout it

We don't have to tell the world about it

It's easy when you feel the way I do

Pissed! That's how I felt. Utterly pissed and damn uncomfortable. There I was, prepping for my cruise, doing what all women must do when bathing suit season hits. You guessed it! Time for the brazilian wax! Usually I'll just do a bikini wax (yeah, I do it myself) but for some reason (maybe it's the itty bitty swimsuit some negroes encouraged me to buy) I said to myself "it's my b-day cruise! balls to the muthafuckin walls: let's take it all".

Pause: Ummmm...someone should have explained what the hell "all" entailed. Don't laugh! It aint as simple as it sounds.

The world of short and curlies is VERY complex! It takes a professional that has passed health exams and yearly mental checks to handle the short and curlies. I mean, this chick had CERTIFICATES on the walls! Testaments to her genuis of handling the short & curly. Now, I'm not completely off my rocker. I've gone to this woman before. I dye my shorties and have them cut into fun shapes. I may even vajazzle every now and again to compliment the jewelry I already have in that area. I knew who I was dealing with, certificates, goggles, magnification light and all. I'd seen how mama handles her work. I thought surely, I can trust her judgement.

Anyway, as stated, I was on her table, cheeks out, legs in suspended stirrups, cracked open while she hummed, prepped, powdered, trimmed...enjoyed herself. Somehow I got the feeling this aint your average. She asks in Japanese "Shai sama, all off or strip?" I patted it and responded, in Japanese, "strip please. just make her even. ya know how I like it." Then in English "no homo." She raised an eyebrow and looked mysteriously around for an interpreter that didn't exist. Then patted it and got to work.

Now, that it's over let me ask you....who the hell pays for this level of torture??? Now it aint my first time at the rodeo but surely they didn't take that much off last season. I would have remembered. And it's not until you feel wax touch places that only a wash cloth or an OBGYN has gone that you realize, you aren't in Kansas anymore. By then, it's too late. The wax has been laid. You can't get off the table and run cuz you will get twisted up in the furry stirrups. She is looking at you with a sinister smile and says ever so quietly as she lays the strip "hold your breath. this may not be pleasant." MAY NOT???? What the hell kinda shit is she into?? Then I realize, Japanese. The whole world bases their bondage and torture techniques off of shit the Japanese started. DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! Aint but one way to get the wax off. She rips the strip. She looks at me and says

Demon: are you going to cry?

Me: No heathen! But I do punch.

Demon: (she blinks)I'll get you glass of water

Me: Vodka. You better get me vodka.

Demon: men like (she blinks again, pats her handy work. returns with water)

Me: Pedofiles. Pedofiles like. That's what we call those "men". My dude. Not a pedofile. Will not like.

She doesn't know I don't have a man. I implied otherwise because somehow, whenever I'm in such a situation, I feel the need to make it clear that I'm hetero. Somehow it comforts both of us. She frowns and gets back to work. Now through all this, we aren't even going to talk about how fingers were moving my piercing out of "the way". Uh-uh. No homo. We aren't going to talk about how she asked me to turn over and said "now behind"...nope. It's too much for my spirit. Disturbs my mental mind too much. I know it happened but I don't believe in that shit and frankly it makes me uncomfortable (for you Ndygo) to discuss how I found myself looking at parts I haven't seen since I was 6. And for good damn reason. I'm 30!! I'm old enough to know (and appreciate) if there's a house, there needs to be a lawn. Grown women - you aren't supposed to look like this! And though I know it's what I asked for, I didn't know what the hell I was asking for. Where was the "bitch behave" memo on this??

In the end, I left feeling cheap and used. I mean that psycho didn't call or write or anything. I had to CALL HER to see how life was going, if the kids were out for summer. No flowers. No nothing. All that "familiarity" in some countries we are considered married! After all that torture...and dropping $80 on your ass...I got to TELL YOU don't forget to write?? What kinda tomfuckery is that???

Oooh I do it for you, and only you

You know I do it for you and only you

Yeah you know it's true

I do it all for you

Now, the truth be told in it, I was doing it because I have to fit in a bathing suit and all that extra afro hanging out just aint fitting. But the whole process got me to thinking (I do that when I'm pissed) about all the shit sisters do....and for what?? for who?? Think about it. We either d.i.y or pay good damn money to sit someplace where we can wax, dye, color, straighten, yank, tweeze, fluff and scent ourselves to damn death. Trying to be his extra clean fantasy. You know how much Victoria's Secretions makes off of those lotions?? Making your pussy smell like rain, raspberry tea, sweet pea, cucumber melon. WTF is that?? And WHAT pray tell do his balls smell like? I haven't seen one damn man bounce his sac in a jar of jasmine and hydrangea for us! It smells like balls!!!! And that's if he respects ya! Sometimes...it smells like sweaty balls. Lucky us, we should understand he's been working all day. Or, if you are just a screw, his balls may smell like the ass he's dragging behind it. Not ne'er a jar of honeysuckle & white gardenia or stress relief spray up on it fuh ya. Do you hear me? Do you get what I'm telling you? And it wouldn't even cross your mind to require the same level of effort from him! Please sista, raise your hand if you ever told a man to not even approach unless he soaked his sac in, at least, a bottle of Pine Sol cuz the woodsy-outdoor type turns you on. *insert sound of crickets here* Exactly!

We go through torture, hell and high water to make ourselves look how we were never meant to look (past the age of puberty), smell like something we were never meant to smell like and feel like we were never meant to feel (smooth like a baby's butt all over). You aren't a baby's butt. You are a working, fighting, breathing, surviving grown ass woman. You just might make it through all of that with a rough spot on your baby toe and a hair bump! Let that shit be! You earned it. And besides that, NEWSFLASH, he aint do shit but shower... 8 HOURS AGO... and that was for work! Not your ass! But you are not only supposed to shower and smell like you're the only mammal on the planet earth who has never taken a shit...not enough. Nope, take it a step further, you are supposed to remove every inch of hair that isn't above your eyeballs! Meanwhile, this sucka can come to bed looking like he descended from a clan of Yeti, smelling like he has a job and expectations of being viewed as sexy. Hair on his back, in his ears & even on his butt. And we are supposed to overlook it. Really? I say no. Sistas, come to bed with a weave growing out your back and shit growing out your ears. See if he doesn't cock an eyebrow, turn on the game & wait for you to get some damn behavior.

If you lose your direction and can't seem to find your way

You don't have to worry, I'll be right with you anyway

I don't get it! We do all this shit...for who? Someone who wouldn't even THINK of, much less follow through, doing any of it for you. I say...to hell with it. Until I see a waxed ball sack soaked in seabreeze and smelling like Andes Candies bet not nobody never (yeah, I know about 40 negatives up in that piece) say shiiiiiiiiit to me about wanting a hairless, trimmed, shaved, smell like fresh baked brownies pussy. Nigga you first! Endgame.

It made me truly wonder, what the hell would happen if we just...stopped. Picked a different path. Put up a detour sign whenever he suggested minimal hair or other unnatural preferences. Personally, I like smell goods and do it for myself. However, if one day, we all just lost our behavior and decided to present ourselves to them in the same careless "well I showered didn't I" way they present themselves to us, with no thought or concern of their preference on hair or smell, etc. would our worst fear of being "undesirable" come true. I suspect the answer is ....HELL NO. He'd screw ya anyway. It's a male. He may talk about ya after, but what do you care? He's talking to himself. You're snoozing and comfy without even asking if he has any preferences about how one should present their down under...JUST LIKE THEY DO.

The other day, I asked one of my DNT sisters (hats off to ya mama), what is the new fragrance for the fantasy box these days. She said, I don't know. I gasped. How the hell could one not know? I mean true, I was asking but that's because I was using a lovely fragrance I purchased overseas. Now that it was empty I wanted to know what new scents I should try. She stated matter of factly, "my pussy smells like pussy". WTF! Are you serious? That's allowed? She said, yeah! I'm not dating anyone. Oh, it's allowed when you aren't dating. I knew that but still, one can be ok with pussy just smelling like it's ...supposed to?? What a fresh (no pun intended) outlook on life. It hadn't dawned on me until that moment, since I scent up just cuz I wanna whether I'm dating or not, that I don't even know what my natural scent is. I mean, you hear men say all the time they like the smell of it. Do you? We spend our entire adult lives covering it up so how the hell would you know if you like it or not? You've been scenting hairless cotton candy. That aint authentic scent! Do you really think whatever you are scenting is what she came here smelling like? Did you honestly convince yourself that pussy smells like Peeps candy?? I doubt it. This sharing time with my DNT sister made me aware that not only could this be a teachable moment for him, hell I could learn some things about me. Ahh, I told you this world of short & curlies is a complex one. It can lead to make-ups, break-ups, self discovery and "baby wtf is all that hair doing there" moments. It can make ya re-evaluate your whole swag.

ok, this rant is over. I'm bald. I'm steeling myself against the itch that I know will come when all the curlies grow back. I'm angry cuz demon wax lady didn't think enough of our experience to text me later, no homo. And thanks to the lack of hair I'm overly sensitive to contact. I sneeze and damn near have an epileptic seizure. Cross my legs in a meeting and my eyes roll back and I start to drool. It aint fittin. All....for a bathing suit and because society (men) believe it isn't attractive to ride out au naturale. And I know in the end, I'll keep scenting, keep waxing (though not this brazil bull, yall can have that) and keep shaving the pits and parts. Even though there isn't a man here...somewhere along the way I got brainwashed into avoiding my natural state and only find beauty in the shaving and scenting of it all. But I swear, one day, when I'm married and he's trapped I'm gonna sit around in my sweat all day. Not shave a thing but demand he go wax cuz it's my "preference". Maybe take a ho bath at the sink and then sit spread eagle in the bed and tell him to lick it. Why?? Cuz somebody is gonna have to pay for the shit we go through...might as well be the one I love. LOL

Oh I do it for you and only you

You know I'd do it for you...

Shai~

Lyrics by Bonnie Tyler: I Do It For You

The Ms. Celie Effect

Its that time of the year again....graduations, vacations, end-of-year reports and massive cleaning projects. Though, I regret leaving my massive fan base ("The Tappers") to wander aimlessly, I hoped you missed me!

Anyhoo, I recently had a conversation with an older confidante of mine. She was brainstorming about her steps with a potential suitor that she started talking to again.

I seem to be THAT girlfriend. The one you haven't talked to in a year but if you recently found love or divorced your husband, I'm the first one that pops into your mind. Whether its helping you pick out your freak'um dress, watching your kids so you can get some, or guarding your freak nasty skeletons like The Mint. I'm full-service. LOL!! But I digress...

In her conversations with her potential, he mentioned his concern about his daughters' thoughts about their fledgling relationship. She dispensed some advice to him about discussing their feelings about her coming around more often, and that this is a special person to him. This all sounds like wonderful parenting advice, especially if your kids were 12 year-old. But these were grown ass 30-something women like myself. That's grown folk business, as long as this woman didn't act indecent or indignant, what could they say?

I held this belief very firmly and it wasn't until this recent conversation was my thinking ever challenged. My confidante gently let me know that her suitor really cared what his daughters thought and wanted to handle this right considering some of his behaviors of the past and she respected the fact that he wanted to gently bring her into the fold.

I had to process this for a minute because she really supported his intentions and gave him a handle around thinking about his daughters. She mentioned that it was the right thing to do.

Hmm, the right thing to do? Acknowledging his daughters feelings and being thoughtful about their role, if any, in this. This took me a minute to rock with, as Shai would say. I looked at my own experience with my parental units.

As long as I have known them they have been separated. Mom Dukes was always hesitant about bringing new men around Numpsy and I. Even when they were crazy about me, she never overexposed us to them. Hell, I've even played the Littlest Wingman on several dates with her.

Now Papa Bear, that's a different story all together. Shit, I ain't have a horse in any race he was running with the ladies. Papa Bear stocked his stable with fillies that definitely weren't feeling me and I wasn't crankin' on them either. But I wouldn't dare say a word about my feelings towards them. The fear of being rejected by him was paralyzing. Papa Bear had a habit of always choosing the side of the women he dated over anything I said that may contradict them. Sadly, this has happened more times than I liked to admit.

So I learned to keep it in and accept whatever he did. In my history there were more women I disliked than liked and I continued to suffer in the silence of being voiceless and defenseless. Its funny, even though Mom Dukes set the example to follow, it was Papa Bear whose actions and choices seemed to had a more penetrable affect on me.

Thus the Ms. Celie Effect. (Sidebar: I am operating on the assumption that all The Tappers have seen the Color Purple at least 20 times. If not, put it on your Net Flicks.)

Ms. Celie was soooo use to being treated badly that she actually corroborated with her abusers and perpetrators. Whether it was turning on display, on the command of her stepfather, like some chattel he possessed to suggesting to Harpo to beat his wife when she didn't obey his command. Sometimes the pain of mistreatment is so bad that you subject others to it, intentional or unintentional, because the idea of you being the only one suffering through this is too brutal to bear.

Who Papa Bear dated wasn't as much of the issue as it was that it didn't matter what happened to me in the process of his dating. There was no future for me in his thinking or acting. How I would benefit or suffer was never a consideration, and the idea of speaking up on the issue was both beyond my process and mired with consequence.

Flashback sequence: I was around 10 or 11, when Papa Bear picked me up for a weekend visit. We were going to visit with his new "Lady Friend" as he called them. Now, because he was late as usual, I spent my time eating Funyuns and falling asleep, so you can imagine the hotness. So Papa Bear suggested I get something to freshen up with from the store and use it at Lady Friend's place. Well, get to Lady Friend and he made it a point to say obnoxiously in front of her, "now go in the bathroom and drink that whole thing of Scope down". Lady Friend busts out in laughter along with him. To this day, the idea of being the butt of his joke was beyond hurtful. And that stupid wench laughing just put the dagger in further.

As I got older, I realized how many of my girlfriends were princesses to their Dads (and not in the prissy ass way either). Their Daddies are the greatest men in their lives and the last thing any of them wanted to do is intentionally undermine their daughter's feelings to get some pussy. I guess I wasn't so lucky.

Thinking back on what my confidante was doing, I finally get it. It IS the right thing to do....matter of fact, it is the expected thing to do.

How can anyone, whether family, friends or lovers, dare say that they truly love you and that you mean the world to them, if they could care less about respecting your presence, time, space or well-being?

And so the Ms. Celie Effect continues on like the butterfly effect (check it out on Wikipedia if you need to).

As I sit thinking about myself and my experiences with this, the next question in my head is: when do I start putting knives to the throats of muhfckas?

'Til Next Time,
~ T-Gyrl

Seasons of Love

525,600 minutes.

525,600 moments so dear.

525,600 minutes.

How do you measure, measure a year?

Ah! On to the business of loving, living and ....well. Death. It seems to be the only constant lesson in my life lately. I'm usually better at this. This life and death thing. You see, I don't feel cheated when someone dies young. I've seen death too many times on too many different faces to NOT know better than that. I know plenty of 80+ year olds who have yet to do a thing with the talents, love and laughter God gave them. I know 28 year olds who have forged their own path, loved fully and followed every dream (even if they never made it a reality). I know, it isn't how long you live, it 's what you do with the years you've got.

In daylights? in sunsets?

In midnights? In cups of coffee?

In inches? In miles? In laughter? In strife?

In 525, 600 minutes how do you measure

your last year of life?

When I was struggling with cancer it wasn't the idea of death that scared the shit out of me. It was the fear that I may never fully live. I'd had my bumps and bruises growing up. Lost more than I gained. From getting arrested (several times), to dead brothers and best friends, to joy rides in cars (I didin't pay for) to living in another country for three months just roaming & learning I still hadn't done anything that impressed ME yet. I hadn't fully loved or been loved in return. I hadn't had children or adopted. I hadn't done that peace corps work I always said I would do. I hadn't really been laid thorough & right (hell not even courted fully & righteously. LOL). I hadn't lost my mind completely. I hadn't ever felt free and open. I hadn't ever felt home. I hadn't impressed ME. It was the thing I regretted most. That feeling of not having lived fully. Even death was common business for average living. It was humbling to say the least. When I survived, I got to the business of living. Nope. Still haven't accomplished everything I wanted to but at 30...haven't done half bad for myself.

In diapers? Report cards?
In speeding tickets? In contracts?

Dollars?

In funerals? In births?

In 525, 600 minutes how do you figure

our last year on earth?

So perhaps you can understand my reaction to my friend's, the scientist, declaration that his best friend (since elementary school) had cancer. Cancer. It took a while for it to sink in from this side of the fence. I'm not usually the one in the "waiting room". Cancer. I waited. I watched. Wanting to be there for him but not really knowing how since both being on this side of the diagnosis and being with him in this capacity were new. I followed his lead. I kept my thoughts inside, just as he is prone to do, even though I knew, that could only last (for me) but for so long.

Time passed. This weekend he let me know the cancer that was in his bones had metastasized to his lymph nodes. It had become terminal. I knew this from the moment he said lymph nodes but I let him tell me. It seemed like he needed to say the words. He wasn't ready to tell me but from his behavior from the past week I could tell something was wrong and had begun to nag him to open up. I know, I gotta stop nagging. It's rude. I know. But it's also rude to be less than who you are and who I am, is a woman who needs communication. So sometimes we will bump heads on that. LOL. This time, I chose to follow my instincts, my truth. I looked at him and asked him "So what are we going to do?"

525,600 minutes. 525,600 journey's to plan

525, 600 minutes, HOW can you measure

the life of a woman or a man?

He said, in a very professional voice, "Assuming there is something we can do. Look, once it gets to your lymph nodes there's a 1 in a billion chance that you will survive. I will be at his procedures , before and after, and of course be as much a support as I can." And though it wasn't the time, I couldn't help but smile. I loved his response. While completely missing what I was asking, it showed the beauty of him. Of our friendship. The vast difference in who we are. It's in those moments, when we see things completely different, that I see balance and he sees hinderance. I was in no way asking about the bff's physical condition or his diagnosis. He is dying. As we all are. That is not to sound callous. It is truth. From the moment we are born we are working on dying. It's the only absolute left. So, my heart says, what are we going to do? Not about his death. About the gift of his living... My heart says, how are we going to celebrate his life with him, while he is still with us? Plan the moments of no behavior. Live out loud until there isn't any noise left to make.

In the truths that she learned? Or in the times that he cried?

In the bridges she burned? Or the way that he died?

How about love?

With my brother I didn't have a chance to laugh until I pee'd (not that I want to currently) or simply live out loud without consequence or behavior. And even if I had...hell, why not give it another go? But my best friend...the moments that keep me smiling is my last summer with her. Somehow, fate figured out that we needed time to lose ourselves in each moment. Money and time weren't a thought.

Let's celebrate the year in a

life of love and friends

I remember stealing her mom's car and calling into our summer jobs to say "we'll be late". That was AFTER we were already AWOL for two days because we decided to drive to Philly (instead of the Giant as her mom asked) to party with my sister and her college friends. We told her very wealthy uncle we were on a college tour so he just kept feeding money into her bank account. More excited than a 16 year old with a playboy model that his niece was thinking about...well...anything...but COLLEGE? Oh, he funded all that debauchery in hopes she was "getting it together". And we did see colleges! I (the good one) made sure of it! We waved at the academic buildings as we stumbled into bars, frat parties, strip clubs. That was our last summer and was the least of our shennanigans that year. The very next summer, her boyfriend thought her better dead.

Share with them your love

You've got to, you've got to live inside love

Measure your life in love

So, as I laid there, stroking his back and listening to the medical explanation. I was plotting...maybe they should just go to Africa for a month and live as brothers of the bush men. Eh! Then no one is getting any for a month and I'd have to delouse & spray him with anti bacterials upon return. Not sure the bff's system can take that. But I want them to spend time just celebrating his life. Wear your own self out I say! The scientist was kissing me at this point. Asking me what I was thinking. I told him too many things to name. Which was true. I was thinking of him, his bff, my losses, my gains, how to get them to the playboy mansion for a weekend of don't ask/don't tell living, about why in the hell would anyone want to laugh until they pee. I was thinking about summers in Philly pumping "Money Aint a Thing" and my bff's voice in my ear. I was thinking of our friendship not being a burden to him while he has so much on his plate. Thinking...what are we going to do? About living, loving and laughing? About your broken heart and disappointment? About the time he still has? What's the next step in Justin's living. Plotting...what are we going to do? My energy already carrying him away to the next season and praying that I can help him to make it more than he expected. So that, when the time comes, they have celebrated their life in a way that leaves them too exhausted to say goodbye or do anything other than remember the love of a brother and good friend.

Seasons of Love! Seasons of Love!

I'll measure your life in love.

~Shai

Seasons of Love lyrics from the musical Rent

Savory Dreams, Famished Realities

I wanna send a personal shout out and a special (virtual) box of sunset blush to some very loyal DNT fans! Wanda Williams and the cubicle nation....thanks for your support. Don't get yourselves fired now...be sure to push some papers around your desk or pick up the phone when you read. Keep the man off your back!

***

Like my DNT sisters, I, too, have been going through my own set of uphill battles. After a visit to the health fair at my "Clark Kent" day job, I realized I needed to make some changes in my life. My sugar was good, but the pressure was high and the stress level was ridiculous. My knees were in pain and I was out of breath at the thought of stairs. I was at an all-time low with my health.

After much contemplation and tears, I knew what I had to do. It had to be done....no....MUST be done. Well, after a weekend of 20,000 calories I decided to get my body back. I got on a fitness program and started working on my fridge. Some things had to go.....and as you can guess.....my box was the obvious.

Aww Lawd.....why my boxed wine? Isn't wine suppose to help something? Maybe heart health....brain function.....hell, even gout prevention.....anything?!? But I knew I had to do it.

Its been 10 weeks since I had a taste. (Well, there was that little foray with the pineapple mojito, but that didn't count)

I decided to get a fitness program going and build up an emotional support network. Surprisingly, this was the easy part of the deal. With the right activity, I know I can become a fitness beast...its only a matter of time.

As for my network, it consists of a sisterhood (and one bruh) who understand the struggle of being a "foodie" and the need for physical change. I knew I had the right crew of people together when one of my people said to me, "Why the hell do they put chocolate on pretzels? That's stupid! But now, if they wrap that pretzel with Swedish Fish, then we're talking!"....these are my peeps!

Lastly, I had to get my healthy food game up. DNT family, y'all just don't know, the sweet delectable reverie of words such as "breaded", "crispy", "savory", "deep fried", and "drizzled".....these words send my senses into a wondrous ecstasy of meals past. To have these words and the meals associated with them taken from me seems cruel and unusual. Its bad enough I'm on a "love sabbatical", but to take away the sweet and tangy flavor of sauce drenched southern fried soul is just a crime.

So I crunch my carrots broken-hearted. (Please don't feel the need to offer me food advice, cause I ain't gonna take it. Just let me sulk....thank you very much)

Sometimes I let my daydreams cheat on my regiment. My food fantasies are so graphic, they're damn near erotic.

This one time I dreamed that I lathered myself in Land O'Lakes butter and stepped into a tub full of sweet potatoes in Karo syrup. And out of nowhere Common shows up holding a spoon and a container full of brown sugar that he gently sprinkles over top of me. As we feast our way through together, its evident that we have to rinse ourselves off. From the shower comes the titillating massaging power of sangria. Oh what a vision!

Another time, I'm at a secluded oasis. There is a cool spring of strawberry mojito with sugar cane all around. Who comes behind me but Idris Elba, escorting me into the soothing and healing rum waters. And as we gaze in each other eyes, he tells me to close my eyes because he has a surprise for me. To my amazement a platter of Red Lobster's hot buttery biscuits appear. Idris feeds me biscuits as we marinate in mojito!!

Oooo, and then there was the time I was massaged into a therapeutically warm apple compote by Bradley Cooper. (Yeah, I said Bradley Cooper!) Bradley's experienced hands let me know he knew his way around an apple pie as he gingerly wrapped me in a flaky cinnamon crust. Putting me under a heat lamp, Bradley begins feeding me General Tso chicken. HEAVENLY!!!

But something always takes me away from my delicious thoughts. These thoughts probably will work against me, so I tuck them in my "wishful thinking" cabinet. As I crunch this bland-ass rice cake, I just hope that my healthy reality is all that its cracked up to be.

'Til Next Time,
~ T-Gyrl

Share My World

Gone Too Soon

Ah....I know...wtf have I been?? Well, the quick and dirty: Everywhere and nowhere all a bit too dayum fast! Let's recount my last few months shall we? I will warn you...this is too dayum long for one time consumption.

• House flooded
• Two week conference (my biggest one for the year)
• Mom had her first heart attack which led to the car getting hit
• Males are falling out of the sky (what the hell is that about)

Since the first three are self explanatory, we can focus on the last point.

Born to Amuse, to Inspire, To Delight

Here one day, gone one night

Like a comet, blazing across the evening sky

1st to man up: Dillon (or at least that's his name this week) is 6 and a student of mine which means he is either HIV positive or has AIDS. For Dillon, it's AIDS. Now, I say that's his name this week, because Dillon was abandoned by his mother and left at the center where I teach. Though we've located his grandmother and know his birth name he has decided that he will choose his moniker. A woman who didn't love him, nor a family that didn't know him shall decide what he answers to. So every week it's something different. LOL. This week - Dillon. He loves music and science and is always on the edge of his greatest adventure (self discovery).

I decided to spend mother's day with my kids (usually mother's day is tough for me, feeling the loss of my own children) and Dillon wanted to be sure I spent most of it with him. Imagine my surprise when, in the midst of his monologue on rock formation, Dillon (who was Brian then) stops mid sentence & peers into my face & sternly asks

Dillon: are you cheating on me?

Me: no. I've told ya time and time again - you're the only 6 year old for me.

Dillon: oh. it'll hurt, but I can take it.

Me: I have someone I keep time with

Dillon: What's that?

Me: I share his time & he shares mine. But he's not sure if he's interested in me in an adult way yet. Nor I him. But you'd like him. He's a doctor, sort of. Really big into science.

Dillon: he doesn't know if he's interested? what's wrong with him?

Me: (sigh..out of the mouths of babes) nothing he just hasn't figured out if he wants me around all the time. he's gone through his rough spots so he's a bit shy about moving too fast and so am I for my own reasons.

Dillon: Hmm, it's good that he's smart. He's gonna need it. Almost as smart as me

Me: Why almost?

Dillon: (shaking his head and picking up his choo-choo that he named after me) he hasn't figured out how to get the girl yet! So he's only almost.
Me: Oh

Dillon: (crashing the train into the wall to get all the moving parts out to study)

Dr. Seuss books please! How do you make a red fish, blue fish? He doesn't tell me in the book.

Me: ok. You know, my friend? He knew Dr. Seuss' real name. Most impressive thing he's ever said to me.

Dillon: (in awe) he can play with my train.
Me: the one you just broke?
Dillon: it's not broken. it's more fun this way. now you can see how it moves. if he doesn't like that, he's not that bright. Dr. Seuss please.

Dillon died Monday, May 17th. I'd known him for 2 years and 3 days. I wasn't there to hold his hand or talk to him about all the different species of red fish (I made him look it up). But I can still hear his laugh. I still read Dr. Seuss books. I kept the million little pieces that made up Akande (his train) and all the things he taught me. And while death is par for the course in my class, he's still the only 6 year old for me. Maybe, when I meet a man worthy enough, I'll show him the pieces and I'll know if he's smarter than a 6 year old by the level of beauty he finds in being able to see what once moved me. Goodbye young prince. I wasn't ready for his death but I pray he finds a cute 6 year old angel that can teach him the beauty of keeping his train on the tracks. LOL

Shiny & Sparkly & Splendidly Bright

Man on 2nd: We have the scientist. Hmm...while Dillon was willing to give up his choo-choo...not so sure I'm willing to give up mine. He's a good man. Impressive on paper (degrees, owns his own home, etc.) but that doesn't impress me much. All the things listed simply means we are bringing an equal amount to the table.

Now, he is one of the best kissers on the planet. Ladies, let's pause on that so we may take a moment and give homage where it is due! ok....back to our regularly scheduled program. He doesn't have children or any communicable diseases (that I'm aware of). He's there if I need him. Always wants to be sure I'm not upset or emotionally hurt. When I am around him, he takes care to make sure I know I'm welcome. Loves to cook. Has an insanely adorable habit of overthinking EVERYTHING. Doesn't mind singing me to sleep (great voice) or giving me massages (great hands). Adores his mother. Loves music and is always sure to cuddle or touch me. Now all of that - does impress me. Very much so.

So what's the hesitation on my end? There are a few things I need in order to take a man's expressed interest seriously. It may not make sense to some but who the hell cares? My life, Mm moments.

A good "bad" moment: Since there was an interest expressed on both sides, I immediately started to wonder what an argument or even a debate with him would look like. Some may find this counter-productive but it works for me. I'm opinionated and educated. Most men hate it. So I need to know if we can argue. I can laugh with any jackass but can we have a productive argument? A good "bad" moment. LOL. I know from experience, that takes a rare level of respect & character.

Well the time came. He was in the mood for a debate, I guess, because it started over something simple. Can't even remember the subject. In any event, the answer to that stress test was a resounding NO. The conversation was so full of posturing and patronizing commentary I'd hate to see how this man deals when the subject is something either of us deeply cares about.

Can I rock with you: We don't have to agree, but can I rock with you? When we first decided to rock for a few I told him something about him was intimidating. I told him that it may be his "intelligence". From his response, I'm sure he took this to mean the size of his degree scared me. He took it that way, because he doesn't know me & he didn't seek clarification (a habit of his). It's not all the things he does know...it's all the things he knows that aren't really so that gives me pause. I often meet dudes like that and wonder if they can learn. I wonder if you can be open to and fully invested in the possibilities of life or just the probabilities offered by figures and charts. I wonder if you can be comfortable letting go and just seeing what happens or if all your steps are measured. Can you have a conversation about blue colors and respect movement based on feeling absent of thought and weighing the what if's. I'm sure he wonders the opposite about me. Can my ass focus? Can we communicate on the same level even if that level is facts and figures.. etc.

Of course I can. Other than theater, he doesn't know my degrees (which is why the verbally patronizing pat on the head of "I'm glad you thought of that" irritates me every time he does it) or that I was a poly sci major before anything else. He doesn't know that my favorite subject in school was science. That I was on every debate team (even in college. shh! don't tell anyone). He never asked, so I never told. He seems content with surface info and details from my childhood never fully asking the whole story. He's a good man whose life experiences are mostly through books and labs. So he believes there can only be one truth, his knowledge & faith limited by probability. And I, with all my degrees & monumental life screw ups, am a good woman whose life experiences are mostly through fights, jail cells & moving from country to country. So I believe the truth changes with the teller, my faith and movement based on the possibility

Sincere Words & Action: We can add to that, the disconnect between what he says he wants and what his actions say he wants. He was very intent on letting me know his interest wasn't just sexual. Good, neither was mine. However, I can't figure out what the hell he is after..lol. After all that, I've come to the conclusion (despite his claims to the contrary) it aint me. He's one of those, speak with intention cats. I can't stand that shit. We should do...xyz but never actually makes the plans to do it. Or "I love spending time with you" but whenever we end up in the same space it's not because he initiated or planned it. It's a product of my effort or circumstance. All in all, I deserve to feel wanted & appreciated by the man to whom I'm giving my time and, despite his verbal claims that I am, I don't feel it, because I don't see it and that's a deal breaker. So even though the rest of it may be able to work out in a beautiful balance (if we let it), this lack of action on his part (which he conveniently calls "moving at my pace")...is enough for what interest I had to start to dwindle and allow for the very real possibility that his interest was never truly there or gone just as soon as it sparked. Problem: My interest isn't dwindling fast enough. LOL. I still believe in the possibility...

Like the loss of sunset
On a cloudy afternoon

Off to see my mom, make funeral arrangements for Dillon, get paint for the kitchen, reconcile my conference, and all around figure out next steps.

Gone too Soon...

Shai~

Song: Gone Too Soon by Michael Jackson

My momma told me

Imet and I...

Oh, wait...

Sorry for the hiatus. Things have been moving quickly. For a brief minute, I thought I was gonna be unemployed. But I'm not. God is good.

So as I was saying...

Imet and I are no more. Or at least, that's what it looks like right now. We haven't spoken in 24 hours. That is to say, 24 hours ago, he told me how he doesn't need anybody but God, and "how have you been supportive of me?", and wah wahwah...

I'm out.

I'm short on patience. Been that way for a long time now. You ever had that one relationship that splits your life into "before him" and "after him"? Yeah, I've had one of those. It's actually an amazing growth experience. After him, though, I learned to trust my own judgment more. You see, a lot of the things that wind up hurting us in the long run, we already saw coming far, far ahead of time. We may not have known what we were looking at. Or maybe we knew and didn't want to acknowledge it. Or maybe we acknowledged it but didn't know where to go from there, so we just awaited the inevitable. Either way, I would hazard an unscientific guess that, oh, 78% of the time, we see, smell or otherwise sense bullshit before it hits us full-on in the face.

And in that indescribable moment after shit has hit the fan, bounced off the blades and is now hurling directly at your left eye with laser-guided accuracy... in that split second of "fuck me, this is really happening", lo n behold, you grow.

So I grew. I kept the patch on my left eye and grew from that moment. And one lesson that I got from that shit patch was to trust my judgment more. Hence my shortness on patience. I will only extend so many chances for you to get your shit together these days. Is this necessarily the right move? I really don't know. It can be brash at times. But I'm enjoying the freedom to make a mistake and live with the consequences, rather than spend all my time deliberating on the decision itself.

"Piss or get off the pot."

"Pick a lane and run."

2 of my favorite phrases in life.

Imet... among other things, is immature. Well, maybe not so much immature for his age, but not mature enough for me. I'm a woman. Therefore, I'm naturally more mature than my male counterparts. This is how we have constructed society, by raising our girls to become women while they're still girls, thereby making them mature more quickly. Girls get taught how to nurture (Barbies, play cooking ovens, my little pony, etc), while boys are left to their reckless abandon, and taught to hunt/build/provide (GI Joe, tonka trucks, etc). It's also why most women usually marry older than themselves.

Imet is one year younger than me. You see how this is already a problem. But I thought, okay, I can deal. I can be patient. I can overlook the dumbshit he does, like calling me at 4am because that's when HE got up to study, knowing good and mutherfucking well that I have to be up in 3 hours for work, AND that I have trouble sleeping. PS , I'm writing this at damn near 1 in the morning, and I have to be up for work in about 6 hours. I overlook that shyt because I have seen, and acknowledged that it's a shit patch, and have braced myself accordingly. I overlook a lot of things like that. And to his credit, I'm sure he's had to overlook a lot of my accept-me-or-kick-rocks-with-ingrown-toenails behaviors. Whatever.

But for you to boldface tell me that you don't need anyone, that I haven't been supportive of you, that ... Dude, seriously?

Like most people (or at least, I think this is how most people think), I have a threshold for bullshit. This threshold is a moving target, depending on the audience. Family and other loved ones naturally get a much higher threshold. But once you cross that threshold, the door closes behind you and there is no crossing back over. And for someone like me who loves resolution - right or wrong - that's a dangerous thing sometimes. When that door shuts, it really shuts. Not because I'm just that strong-willed. Nope. I just... once you cross that threshold, I no longer see you as I once did. You've become this ...new creature, and I just can't see you any other way than that.

Imet is almost there. Almost. Much to my delight and surprise, there's still a piece of me that is wiling to work with him. He's dealing witha lot. I mean, a LOT, at this time in his life. But that window is closing fast. Because it's not like I'm living the carefree life either. Someone asked me yesterday when/where I'm going on vacay. I laughed. "I don't do vacays. I save all my vacay time so I can spend it with family at our annual gatherings. I don't go anywhere." There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "I gotta get to somebody's beach, fuck THAT." I envied him his work-life balance. Especially since he has a kid. What's my fucking excuse?

I was discussing my Imet situation with mom today. That jewel has more wisdom than I think even she realizes. "What you call yourself, is what you will be called," she reminded me. As you regard yourself, so shall the world regard you. If you allow any man to take advantage of you, that is your choice. But it...is...your...choice.

As I swirled that around in my mouth and mulled over her words, she hit me with another banger: a man is supposed to pamper you.

Wow. That lingered. Still lingers.

Have I ever had that? What is that like? I'm not referring to the occasional gift splurge and compliment. I mean... What is it like to be so loved that a man is protective of you, that he puts you ahead of himself, that he treats you like a pearl encased in an eggshell? What is that like? I look at my parents. I have no idea what their courtship was like. Well, not those sorts of details. I'm sure my dad was romantic, because he has the artist's heart.

And while that lingered on the brain, she hit me with this: "When your father was courting me, he was consistent. His actions spoke for him. He showed up. He was there. He did as he promised. He was consistent. He was there."

Ladies and gentlemen, this is my dad, till this day. What he says, never needs to be second-guessed. He wouldn't say it if he couldn't commit to it.

What is that like? To have a man who loves me so gingerly, so completely, so actively, so soundly, so assuredly, so protectively, so completely... what is that like?? I've told myself that I don't need these things. I don't need to fall in love. I don't need those warm, giggly feelings that you get when you meet someone new. Man, I don't even remember the last time I felt those. I figure, I've been there, done that and what did it net me? Not my husband. And isn't that the point of all this? I know, I know... date for dating's sake. Yeah, that was cool, and I've done that. But I'm not in that space right now. So I told myself, that as long as he was a stable character, treated me with respect, met the bare requirements of a partner, etc, I was good. He doesn't have to get me. I can find other outlets for my... personality. I can find ways to tuck it away. I can be less me. I can fit myself into this box, eat oatmeal for the rest of my life, and live a healthy relationship.

Why do I find myself yearning for just the opposite now? Why do I yearn to be heard, listened to, seen, appreciated, loved, in all my naked, flawed glory?

What is that like??

Imet is none of these things. Part of me says, I can nurture these things into/out of him. Perhaps that's true. But I don't think I'm going to find out. There's bittersweet release in knowing he's not coming back.

Regard yourself well. The world is watching.

The "A-Ha" Moment

Hey Folks,

So us lovely ladies of DNT have been on a little hiatus. Life caught up to us. Shit happens. But we're coming back with more tales of love and relationships for you. Hopefully, you're anticipating more from us.

Tippin' my glass to you,

T-Gyrl

....Here's a little teaser post for you all.

***

Since I've been on this writing va-kay, lots have happened in the world. One of the more frivolous events was the release of the new Ciara video called "Ride".

I'm sorry T-Gyrl, but is that something that we should be aware of? Is it really relevant?

Apparently so....according to all the Facebook statuses of a few of the guys on my friends list. I have never seen soooo many guys with advice to women on how to keep their man until this video came out.

I thought to myself: Self, what could Ciara possibly be doing to have so many men captivated and willing to believe that this very action will, in fact, make a man faithful, get him to commit and love you more than anything that you did prior to this video?

And then I saw the video....

I'm not gonna lie, my first reaction was sadness. My mind started racing. All the years that I have worked on accepting where I'm at and who I am and now here comes Ciara gyrating all that to hell. I started feeling bad about myself because hell, I'm working out trying to get my body right, but my shit wasn't going to look like that in a bathing suit (and a fur coat).

That sexy glam look wasn't me at all and to be told that this is how you keep a man satisfied hurt me to my core. Why can't I be encouraged to have a Window Seat like Erykah Badu. Being rid of societal and social restraints to be free and express myself as I am...naked. No touch ups, just perfect imperfections is all.

I was all ready to hate on Ciara when my nephew-son gave me a little man-spective on my "internalization" of Ciara's video. His words of wisdom resonated loudly down to my core.

He said, "LOL, she teaching you how to ride ittt!"

OOOOOHHHHHHHHHH!!!! RIIIIDDDEEE IITTTT!!!......

So, this wasn't a personal attack on who I am and the type of woman I have grown to be? Really?....OKAYYY!!!

I asked a few of my man-friends about the same video and their feelings behind it. After coming out of the gyration hypnosis, most of them told me that it was definitely about....ahem....the performance. Most of the guys, though impressed by Ciara's skill set, didn't feel it was a requirement that every woman possessed this.

I asked all of them...would you approach a woman in the club who was "dancing" like that? The answers varied from "No because I couldn't move with her" to "I gotta say SOMETHING".

One of them summed the video up in these thoughts: "...a woman dancing like that would be intriguing but if she doesn't have anything going on between her ears I'm not interested."

So I'm gonna keep doing me (and maybe delete some friends on Facebook, LOL!!)

'Til Next Time,
~T-Gyrl